Organized Chaos
by Shailee-Sue
Summary: You can tell a lot about a person by the state of their dorm room (or their lab). Fitzsimmons. Set during the Academy days.
1. Chapter 1

**Organized Chaos**

"_You are my Manhattan from the sky. You look so neat and tidy when I'm way up high, but I know your streets are lined with a fine mess inside. I wanna come down and walk around your mind."_

_- Manhattan From the Sky, Kate Voegele_

Stepping into Leopold Fitz's dorm room was like setting foot on another planet – one where the inhabitants were blatantly unfamiliar with both order and hygiene. Every surface was covered in a light layer of dust and water rings from long-gone drinks had seeped deeply into the wood of his nightstand and desk. Laundry was littered across every inch of the floor, the trash can was overflowing with empty cups and fast food wrappers, and wrinkled papers bearing half-drawn designs of various engineer projects covered every available surface.

The bed was unmade – blankets and sheets tangled together at the foot, obviously kicked there at some point during the previous night. The desk was covered with wrinkled paper, pieces of mechanical devices, and various textbooks stacked in a haphazard pile that defied the very laws of physics. The small bookshelf in the corner made her cringe internally – books and unlabeled notebooks were piled randomly on top of one another in no discernible pattern, spines facing in different directions.

Everything about the room screamed of chaos. She shouldn't have been surprised.

Within the clutter and chaos, she could discern the occasional personal touch. His sheets were his favorite color of dark blue. His favorite pair of converse sneakers had been kicked off near the door. A younger version of Fitz grinned at her from a framed photo on the desk, surrounded by so many relatives that everyone barely fit into the frame. The picture appeared to be from some sort of family event, and Jemma could practically hear the Scottish accent oozing from the photo. She grinned at the thought.

"I think it's over here," Fitz said from the other side of the room, drawing her attention to where he was searching for something beneath the bed, "I had it just the other day."

"How do you find anything in here?" Simmons asked skeptically, shaking her head. It was hard to believe that one person could create such a huge mess.

Fitz poked his head over the bed to look at her, scrunching up his nose and shooting her a fake glare. "I know exactly where everything is."

Jemma raised a doubtful eyebrow, "Then why are you having such trouble finding that diagram?"

"I'm not!" Fitz exclaimed triumphantly pushing himself back to his feet, diagram clasped victoriously in his hand.

Simmons rolled her eyes but was unable to prevent her lips from turning up into an indulgent smile as he clambered back to the doorway, stepping over piles of clothes. He clicked off the light and shut the door behind them, falling into step beside her as they headed to the lab.

"You know," she mused, "It would be so much easier to find things if you had some system of organization. It wouldn't take long to alphabetize your bookshelf…"

"My bookshelf is perfectly organized, thank you very much." Fitz cut her off mid-sentence.

Jemma blatantly disagreed, having just witness the disaster of disorganization for herself, but she simply rolled her eyes.

"I could do it for you," she suggested.

Fitz turned to glare at her without breaking stride, his footsteps still perfectly in sync with her own. He poked her arm with each word for added emphasis as he declared in a threatening voice "Don't. You. Dare."

* * *

><p>Stepping into Jemma Simmons's dorm room was like stepping into a foreign country - one where the obsessive dictator was raging a ruthless war on dirt and disorganization. Every surface was spotless. There were no half-filled cups sitting on the nightstand, no dirty laundry littering the floor, no haphazard papers spread across the bed or tacked to the walls. Every surface gleamed as though freshly dusted.<p>

The bed was made - the simple sheets and comforter pulled taunt and tucked in on every side. The desk was clear – paperclips, staples, and thumbtacks all tucked away into neat containers, pens all facing the same direction. The bookshelf was ordered – books specifically categorized by subject and then alphabetized by the author's last name. A number of colored notebooks were stacked on top of her nightstand– perfectly aligned and affixed with neatly-printed labels. He didn't have to open them to know that they would be filled with perfectly-legible notes, written in her small cursive handwriting. He was half-tempted to peek in the closet to see if she organized her clothing by season or by color.

Everything about the room screamed of order. He shouldn't have been surprised.

Despite the rigid order, there were personal touches here and there. A small plastic TARDIS sat atop the bookcase and a bookmarked novel lay upon the nightstand. A younger version of Jemma in a graduation cap and gown, flanked by an older couple that must be her parents, smiled shyly at him from a photo on her dresser.

"Have you ever been to see a psychologist?" He asked from the doorway when he caught sight of the color-coded calendar hanging above her desk.

Jemma Simmons paused in her search for a headband, leaning out of the bathroom doorway to look at him, confusion etched into every line of her face.

"Why would I see a psychologist?" she asked, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she tried to ascertain the motivation behind his question.

Fitz cracked a smile, unable to fake seriousness in the wake of her concerned confusion.

"Because judging by your room, I'm certain that you meet the diagnostic criteria for obsessive compulsive disorder," he joked.

Simmons rolled her eyes at him, disappearing back into the bathroom and emerging a moment later, headband perfectly in place.

"I do not have repeated, anxiety-provoking patterns of cognition, nor do I participate in specific ritualistic behaviors designed to decrease any anxiety associated with them. I am neither obsessive nor compulsive," Simmons declared primly as she grabbed a notebook from the nightstand, a pen from her desk, and her purse from the hook next to the door. "I simply like to keep my possessions organized."

Fitz blatantly disagreed, having seen her obsessive side emerge during several of their projects, but he simply rolled his eyes, stepping aside so that she could follow him into the hallway.

"Sounds like OCD to me," he quipped.

"Just because I actually fold and sort my laundry," Simmons countered quickly as she fell into step beside him, "Does not mean that I suffer from a psychological disorder."

"You don't _suffer_ from a psychological disorder," Fitz conceded, holding the door open for her as they exited her dorm, "It appears that you _enjoy_ it."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Despite repeated negotiations, I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or any of these characters. However, I do take full responsibility for any and all mistakes. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** This was meant to be a one-shot, but the thought of them switching tendencies while in the lab wouldn't leave me alone. I still don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D, but all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

* * *

><p>Her first thought is that he's been hiding his inventions from her. Although she's never seen any unexplained designs or suspected him of working in secret, somehow he's apparently managed (without her knowledge) to invent a miniaturized robot that cleans, organizes, and prints out computer-generated labels. It seems that he's also developed self-organizing tools that must operate via magnets, realigning perfectly into their assigned places no matter how haphazardly he tosses them aside. Yes, surely advanced technology is the only explanation for how an Academy lab managed by Leopold<em> I-haven't-done-laundry-since-the-semester-started<em> Fitz could appear this neat and organized.

Everything is in its assigned place. His workbench is clear of debris and the faint smell of cleaning fluid in the air indicates that he's sanitized it recently. A series of custom-built cases lines one wall, each one containing a neatly-labeled prototype of some sort, and a set of three-ring binders containing detailed diagrams and sketched to-scale designs rests on a shelf above them. Within the overhead cabinets, every tool is in its prescribed place – screwdrivers are arranged neatly by size and type, microchips are labeled and slotted into a custom-built case, and circuit boards and wires of varying types reside within neatly-labeled drawers.

At the center of this unexpected organization, Fitz is at his workbench. He sits as though he's being graded on posture – back straight, shoulders back, head down, all of his attention focused on the minuscule device in his hands. His gaze is riveted on the device, his tongue set between his teeth as he concentrates on aligning the delicate mechanics. It occurs to Simmons that times like these, when he's completely absorbed in a task, are the only times he's truly still. His usual habit of constant fidgeting simply ceases to exist, and she vaguely wonders how long he would remain motionless if left to his own devices.

"Got it!" he exclaims after a moment, his voice ringing with triumph, "Now I just need to fasten…"

He trails off as he glances around the lab, apparently realizing that he doesn't have the tool he needs. Unable to shift either of his hands without throwing the detonator out of alignment, he catches her eye and gives her a hopeful smile.

"Simmons, can you…?"

"… Did you want me to?"

"Yeah. I just need a screw from the…"

"…top left cabinet. One of the quarter inch ones?"

"Yes. They're labeled according to size."

Simmons has to admit that although the labeling is a bit excessive, it is nice to be able to find what she's looking for without an extensive search. Screw in hand, she returns to his side, bending over him and resting her chin on his shoulder to get a better look at the device in his hands.

"It's a detonator" she asks curiously, "for the micro EMP device?"

"Detonators are for explosives," Fitz scoffs, not the least bit bothered by her intrusion of his personal space, "this is a remote system designed to sync to the…"

"NO!" he shouts, mid-sentence, and Simmons jumps, jerking her hand back roughly from where she'd been attempting to place the screw between the two parts he was holding steady.

"You can't just shove it in there," he reprimands, managing to shoot her a glare over his shoulder without shifting the device at all, "you have to be delicate Simmons!"

Rolling her eyes, she leans forward again, brushing against his forearm as she carefully inserts the screw and tightens it with a twist of her fingers.

The minute she withdraws her hand, Fitz carefully releases one component, freeing one of his hands, and reaches around her for the tiny screwdriver on the workbench. He tightens the screw with a practiced motion, replaces the protective casing, and flips the device over, pressing a button on the other side. They both wait, frozen in anticipation, until a series of red lights blink into existence along the front casing of the little device. Jemma smiles, and Fitz lets out a high-pitched whoop of triumph that sounds suspiciously like a squeal.

He flushes red when Jemma laughs, but rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

After a half hour of Fitz explaining the mechanics behind the remote portion of the new EMP device and numerous assertions that it is NOT a detonator, Jemma insists on a lunch break. Fitz leads the way, ever-enthusiastic about the prospect of food, but she lingers in the lab just a moment longer, waiting until he's out of sight before rushing to one of his cabinets. Grinning wickedly, she deliberately shuffles the order of his screwdrivers, curious to see how long it will take him to notice the change.

Even her earliest estimate is wrong, because she doesn't even make it into the hallway before he reappears, brow furrowed in suspicion. She consciously wipes the smile from her face, but she's never been a good liar. His blue eyes sweep over the lab once before returning to her face, scrutinizing her expression, and reading her like an open book.

"Put it back."

* * *

><p>His first thought is that there's been some kind of terrible accident- an explosion, an earthquake, or some sort of inexplicable indoor tornado. Surely that's the only explanation for how a well-organized S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy lab could end up in such a state. One door of Simmons's storage cupboard is hanging open, various vials and solutions visible inside it. A Bunsen burner lies abandoned on the counter beneath the fume hood, which is still running, filling the lab with a quiet whirling noise. There's no evidence of hazardous chemicals (Thank God for that), but beakers, test tubes, and petri dishes are scattered across every available surface. Inside-out gloves and crumbled paper litter the counter, and a notebook full of scribbled calculations teeters on the edge of a stool. Fitz struggles for a moment to make sense of the chaos until his gaze comes to rest on the eye of the metaphorical storm where a disheveled Jemma Simmons is hunched over a microscope.<p>

She's shoved her safety goggles up onto her forehead and several strands of hair have escaped from her normally neat ponytail. The sleeves of her lab coat have been pushed up past her elbows and a pair of gloves is protruding from one of her pockets. Her slim shoulders are tense and her fingers drum impatiently against the counter top as she adjusts the microscope's focus. He's never seen her this agitated and he vaguely wonders whether she's slept at all since she's clearly been in the lab for hours and it is only 8am. When she finally glances up at him, he expects to see exhaustion, but instead her eyes are shining with excitement.

"I think I've almost got it," she explains, not bothering with any type of greeting, "The chemical structure is nearly identical…. It took me hours to puzzle it out, but I think that if I can just slightly alter… Or combine it with… I mean, it would require an absurd alternation in temperature, but it's theoretically possible and it could…"

"Simmons. Breathe."

She blinks slowly, her cheeks flooding with color as she begins to realize exactly how manic she sounds. She inhales deliberately and consciously straightens up, stepping back from the microscope as she struggles to pull herself out of her racing thoughts and back into reality.

"Sorry…I'm just…" She trails off, struggling to put into words the familiar frenzied sensation that surfaces when she's on the verge of a breakthrough.

"A giant geek?" Fitz offers, grinning from ear to ear and walking over to stand beside her.

He has a moment to relish the look of shocked indignation on her face before she jabs her finger into his chest.

"Says the man who literally _squealed_ over a detonator last week."

"It was not a detonator! Detonators are for explosives, it was a remote delivery system designed to sync to an independent interface…"

"It was a detonator. A very tiny, very complicated detonator."

He wants to argue, but she's grinning at him and he can't help but smile back.

"So, what did you figure out?" he asks, moving the notebook so that he can sit beside her, "In full sentences this time please."

With only a mild eye-roll, she grabs the notebook and spreads it out on the counter, pointing out specific calculations and interpreting the sections where racing thoughts have turned her beautiful cursive handwriting into chicken scratch. It takes a few minutes of rapid-fire explanation, but as she elaborates she becomes more coherent, more certain of her idea. She writes as she speaks, starting with a new, blank page. He watches her handwriting shift from frantic scribbles to slowly-written sentences and he begins to understand the basics of her discovery. He has to admit that it's rather brilliant.

"Any questions?" she asks half an hour later after she's given him an exhaustive explanation and they've already begun theorizing about possible applications.

"Just one" he admits, giving their work space an exasperated glance, "How in the bloody hell did you manage to make such a mess?"

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading!<p> 


End file.
